


Here

by demiksmith



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Romance, angsty, mostly cullen/lavellan, others make brief appearances, sorry not sorry? i enjoy angst, tranquil time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:33:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demiksmith/pseuds/demiksmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen comes to measure time in simple increments: she's here, or she's not. A time comes when his measurement falters, and he can't decide where the Inquisitor is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here

**Author's Note:**

> so this came out of nowhere. uh, yeah. enjoy?

She’s draped across him, grinning mischievously as he tries to work around her. She pouts after a moment, and the movement of her lips draws his eye.

“Really?” He asks, leaning back in defeat. She smiles again, the branches of her dark vallaslin curving along her cheekbones.

“Really.” She says, sitting up to brush her lips against his. Cullen sighs, content, as her clever fingers work through his hair. “You’ve been working for too long, Commander.”

He presses his lips to her throat, humming in agreement. “Such is my duty, Inquisitor.”

She laughs, sliding off him, tugging him to his feet. Her eyes are bright, green and vivid, her long golden hair tousled, loose from its customary braid. “Then, Commander Cullen, I insist you take a break.”

Her voice is wry, and she pulls him toward the ladder leading to his room. He goes willingly, laughing at her. “Why, Inquisitor Lavellan, whatever you command.”

He follows her up, and when he pulls himself to his feet, he takes a chance to savour the moment. _She’s here_ , he thinks _, she’s alive, and she’s with me. This is enough._

 

 

The letter crumples in his fist. Delayed again, multiple injuries in the party, and Cullen bites back a snarl. If only _he_ was at her side, he could protect her. Sighing, he forces his hands to relax. Cassandra was with her, and the Seeker was a better warrior than him. It wasn’t a question of inept party members, but rather of increasingly difficult odds. The Red Templars were proving to be a serious threat. Smoothing the letter, he rereads it, tracing calloused fingers over the signed _Lavellan_ at the end.

His Inquisitor was always so serious, except when it was just them. He hopes she’ll be back soon.

 

 

“It must be done. It _will_ be done.” Her voice is sharp, her hands flat on the war table before her. Leliana is nodding, one hand brushing across her lips, eyes on the map markers that Josephine is shifting across the country lines. Cullen is staring at the Inquisitor, disbelief and fear warring with his military sense. She was right, but Maker take him if she thought he wouldn’t fight her on it.

“Inquisitor-” He tries, and she raises a hand, effectively cutting him off. He growls, ignoring the way Leliana raises an eyebrow at him. Josephine crosses her arms, eyes darting between the others.

“The Inquisitor is right, Commander. There isn’t another way. If we ignore this, we open the Inquisition to far greater threat.” Josephine tries to soothe, and it isn’t working. Cullen’s eyes are still locked on Lavellan, whose hands are back on the map, fingers idly tracing the lines that made up the Dales.

“We leave now.” She says finally, glancing up. Her expression is hard, and she gives him a short nod, before leaving the war room. He sighs noisily, jerking when Leliana pats his arm.

“You should be glad that she holds so closely to her duty.” She murmurs, and he shakes his head.

“I would be, if it wasn’t likely to kill her.” He says tiredly, hands on his face. Leliana squeezes his shoulder once more, then moved away.

Josephine shifted, a map marker turning in her hands. “She travels with the best, Commander. Try not to worry.”

Cullen sighs again, before taking his leave. Maybe he’ll see the Inquisitor before she leaves. He hopes so.

 

 

Varric is limping up the steps to the main hall, dirty and bloody, and alone. Cullen is immediately on alert, pulling away from his officers’ reports, jogging toward the slowly moving dwarf.

“Varric?” He calls, worry suddenly overwhelming. The dwarf visibly cringes, and turns to Cullen with a wince.

“Hey Curly. Long-time no see.” Varric’s attempt at humour falls flat, and he sighs. “They have her.”

The words that confirm Cullen’s suspicion still knock the breath from him, and he sags against the stone wall, light headed. Varric’s hands are on his shoulders, the only thing keeping him from the ground.

“She sent me back, right before they overwhelmed the camp.” Varric tells him tiredly. “I couldn’t do much, _she_ couldn’t do much. Too many Templars supressing.”

Cullen wheezes panicked breaths, knowing all too well the effectiveness of Templar suppression. She was with Vivienne, and Cassandra. The Seeker would have fought hard to compensate for the two mages, but he shook his head, sudden exhaustion slamming home.

“Good news?” Varric continues, casually ignoring the onset of Cullen’s panic. “They weren’t Red Templars.”

That has Cullen breathing easier, and he feels himself slip from _Cullen_ to _Commander_.

“Where?” He asks as he straightens, knowing their response time was limited. Varric gives him a tired grin.

“Come on, let’s get Blackwall and Bull. Then we can go get them.” The dwarf gives him a nod, and they walk together into the main hall.

 

 

The Inquisitor’s camp wasn’t far from Skyhold, the trip quick on the fastest of Dennet’s mounts. Iron Bull and Blackwall had gathered their gear quickly, ready to ride the moment Cullen had told them what had happened. Varric had taken the chance to receive healing from Solas, meeting Cullen at the stables with a grim nod.

They slow as they near the camp, sliding from the horses, before creeping up slowly. Vivienne and Lavellan are tied together, slumped near the campfire, while Cassandra is tied to a nearby tree, struggling against her bindings. Five Templar knights are in sight, two standing close by the suppressed mages, the others watching the surroundings wearily.

“Stealth, or-?” Blackwall asks from where he kneels to Cullen’s left. Iron Bull laughs quietly, shaking his head.

“Brought me. Stealth’s out of the question.” With that, the qunari charges the camp, roaring. Blackwall sighs before following, and Cullen is moving at his side, shield up. Varric is off somewhere, taking advantage of the scene three charging warriors creates.

The fight is brutal, the Templars fighting with a crazed desperation, and Cullen wonders if it’s brought on by lyrium withdrawal. Cassandra’s suddenly at his side, snarling and cursing as she kills two of the knights, tears bright in her eyes. A slow, curling dread works its way through Cullen as he helps bring down the remaining knights, and he turns quickly to the two mages, dropping his shield. Slicing through the bindings, he helps Vivienne to her feet, eyes only for Lavellan.

“Inquisitor?” He asks softly as he pulls her upright, waiting for her to meet his eyes, to say something.

“Ma’am-?” Bull’s voice is quietly shocked, and Varric’s snarling curse has the dread cementing itself along Cullen’s spine. Trembling fingers tilt Lavellan’s chin up, and dull eyes meet his. He brushes bangs away from her forehead, praying to the Maker, to Andraste, to Mythal and her Creators, but his fingers find the mark. _Only vallaslin should be on this skin_ , he thinks as he pulls her to him. Tears are running down his face unchecked, but he can’t be bothered.

“It was the first thing they did.” Cassandra’s voice is low, broken, _raw_. There is a trembling note, and then she swallows audibly. “The Inquisitor, she- she told them she was the only mage, that Madam de Fer was a noble.”

 _Trying to save her friend, to sacrifice herself to keep her friend safe_ , he thinks, unsurprised. That was the Inquisitor, after all. She would give everything away to help, and when nothing was left, would give parts of herself.

“They knew they were both mages.” Cassandra finishes, her voice quiet next to Blackwall’s swearing.

“Seeker-” Varric says, and Cassandra collapses against him, crying openly.

“I couldn’t _do_ anything!” She cries against the dwarf, and he holds her carefully.

“Let’s get back to Skyhold.” Cullen says finally, trying to resume the mantel of _Commander_ , when all he feels is dull, blank, empty.

Lavellan mounts the horse quietly when he asks her to, sits still and quiet before him when he climbs up behind her. Vivienne sits on Bull’s mount, posture perfect, and if he glances just past her, Cullen can believe that she is fine. Cassandra is slumped behind Varric, Bull leading Vivienne’s horse along in their wake.

The ride back to Skyhold is long, quiet, and any sense of victory in their rescue long gone.

 

 

“You must be able to do _something_!” His shout cracks, and Solas glances up at him calmly. Lavellan is seated before him, Vivienne next to her. Solas’ hands hover in front of their foreheads, over the sunburst marks.

Cassandra is drunk, leaning against the wall in the Inquisitor’s room, Bull standing next to her. Blackwall is on the balcony, drink in hand. Dorian is bent over at the small desk, piles of books opened before him, while Cole flutters anxiously around the room, too many hurts to soothe, too many hurts to fix. Varric is seated on the small couch, head in his hands, while Sera sits too still beside him, mouth tightly shut in a grimace.

“It ain’t right. Magic ain’t right neither, but this ain’t right _more_.” She mutters, and Varric kicks her gently. She squawks indignantly, and he glares at her.

“Not the time, Buttercup.” He says, and Sera leans back with a sigh.

Solas sighs, closing his eyes as he takes a careful step back. “There is nothing I can do.”

Cullen’s fist meets the wall, any satisfaction blinded by the pain of bones crunching. Solas is healing him even as he shakes his hand.

“I’d advise against that, Commander.” He says quietly, before walking over to Dorian.

Lavellan and Vivienne watch the exchange with little interest, eyes that were once bright and inquisitive and full of _life_ dull and listless.

“The rifts.” Solas says suddenly, and it draws Cullen’s attention. Hope, a long dead thing, seems to spark, even as he wishes it didn’t. “We need to check whether the anchor will still operate.”

Cullen is on him, snarling, only Bull’s and Blackwall’s quick reactions keeping him from beating the apostate bloody.

“They are _tranquil!_ ” He roars, struggling against the warriors’ hold. “They are your fellows! _Do something!_ ”

Something shifts in Solas’ gaze, and he meets Cullen’s eyes. “You know as much about tranquility as I, Commander. _Your_ fellows did this to them.”

The insult is delivered in a cheerfully dry tone as Solas turns back to Dorian’s books, and Cullen sags. Dorian gives him a sympathetic glance, before continuing to dig through the pile.

No one speaks for a long while, everyone slowly leaving the room until Cullen and Bull are alone with Vivienne and Lavellan.

“I’ll bring Ma’am to her room.” Bull says solemnly, and Cullen barely notices as the qunari leads the woman from the room. Lavellan is watching him with dull eyes, and Cullen wants to _break_ something.

He grabs her shoulders, trying for gentle but missing it by a mile, tugging her forward. “You’re there, you’re in there somewhere, _you’re there_.”

Lavellan raises a hand to pat his shoulder, movement awkward. “I am right here, Commander Cullen.”

She doesn’t move when he presses his face to her shoulder, doesn’t move as his tears soak her shirt.

 

 

The Inner Circle do what they can, Cassandra snapping out of her drunken haze to hound after the cure for tranquility, Dorian and Solas barely sleeping or eating as they search the library and the Fade for answers. The others help, bringing food and drink, sitting with Vivienne or Lavellan, trying to find their friends.

“Don’t know much about magic, Cat, but you’re the bloody Inquisitor! You can figure this out.” Varric says as he sits next to Lavellan. She doesn’t respond to his comment or the nickname, when in days past she would wrinkle her nose, pulling her vallaslin into whiskers.

“Separate, drifting, gone but not lost. You hear and see and taste and _feel_ but its muted, second hand. The barrier is real, but it can be moved, broken, shifted. The cut, is it a cut? Or more of a bend? A snap, a break, a schism, a fissure, or is it pinched, tied, held back?” Cole’s quiet musings drift in and out, his hands gentle when he holds theirs, sitting with Vivienne and Lavellan alike.

Cullen can’t be around the others when they visit Lavellan, is finding that he can’t be around her alone at the same time. Eyes that were bright with mischief and amusement and _life_ stare back like pieces of coloured glass. Movements that were graceful and smooth and helped earn the nickname _Cat_ are now wooden and economical. No more casually swinging feet, or tapping of fingers, or braiding of hair. No humming, or smiles or laughter.

Solas’ practicality is echoed by Leliana, and the Inquisitor is taken to a nearby rift. Cullen wants to go, but doesn’t argue when Leliana tells him to stay. He’s finding it easier to come up with reasons, with _excuses_ to avoid Lavellan, much to his shame.

The rift is sealed with no issue, Solas manipulating the anchor with his own magic. This is a relief, his practical side tells him, the Inquisition can still be of use. Cullen tries to wear that mindset like a mantel, tries to harden himself from the grief, the guilt, whenever he sees Lavellan.

He was a Templar. He had seen the rite performed before. He had never done it, but he had held down mages who suffered through it. It was only fitting, he supposed, that the woman he loved would suffer the rite. It suits the tragedy of his life well enough.

 

 

Weeks pass, and Cullen buries himself in his duties. He doesn’t take breaks, doesn’t really eat or sleep, but his work gets done, and that’s how he’s measuring his own wellbeing these days. A knock at the door, and he mutters a welcome, sure it’s another officer with something to be signed.

“Cullen?” A voice he hasn’t heard in weeks asks, and he looks up quickly. _He’s dreaming_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t care. _She’s_ there, standing like she always had in his doorway, eyebrow raised questioningly. Her hair is braided back tightly, bangs brushed to the side, brand showing, but her eyes are _bright, and alive and so is she_. He’s holding her tightly to him, tears streaming down his face, and he thanks the Maker, and Andraste and Mythal and all of her Creators, and she’s holding him back, laughing wetly. Vivienne is standing behind her, a coy smile on her lips, and she too _is alive and bright and warm_.

“How-?” His question is rough as he glances between the two mages, and Madam de Fer answers, voice imperious and noble as always.

“You would know, my dear, if you hadn't locked yourself away like some hermit.” And she walks away, giving Lavellan a last knowing smile.

“Dorian and Solas, and Cassandra- does it matter?” Lavellan asks, kissing him breathlessly. And no, it doesn’t matter, not now, not when she’s _back_. And if her teeth are too sharp on his lip, or her skin is suddenly under his hands instead of cloth, it doesn’t matter. He leans back, taking in her eyes, _bright, alive, warm_ , the brand, the vallaslin, and it’s _her_.

And if her braid is gone and her tail wraps around his waist and her nails are claws and her horns are rough under his lips, so what? She’s _here._

**Author's Note:**

> ps. i love each and every character. Sera and Solas get a tiny bit of flack from this, but Sera isn't exactly known for her stunning emotional revelations and Solas needs to be practical to avoid being upset. Please feel free to comment!


End file.
